


Kuroo Tetsurou ft. Friends

by redrioting



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Kuroo Tetsurou, Dancer Bokuto Koutarou, Gen, kuroo suffers bc of his friends, odd puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 14:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12533628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redrioting/pseuds/redrioting
Summary: “I’m fixing up my canvas, Tetsu-chan.”“I can see that.”“What’d ya ask then?”Tetsurou shrugs, make a sound of indifference. “I dunno, heard this thing called being a friend, not sure if it’s crossed your mind very often considering youfood poisonedme once.”





	Kuroo Tetsurou ft. Friends

Tetsurou knows what this is. 

The feeling of running into a non-existent wall, one that surrounds him from every corner, blocking the sliver of light known as inspiration, closing in on him until all he sees are four brick walls, chapped and drawn-on mindless doodles.

He sighs, pushing the sketchbook off his lap and onto the smooth vinyl floor of the contemporary dance studio. Shaking his head at the awkward lines thrown on the page angrily; typically smooth are rough, marred with the effects of tireless nights working on midterm pieces, hours of revising with historical events running through his mind and dates blurring together. 

His sketches look like pointless scribbles scratched onto the the page, nothing even close to the intricate movements of Bokuto dancing with Shirofuku, delicate and mesmerising as they move around in one of the Seijou ballet studios, fragments of rising sunlight glossing over them from the panelled wall of windows, shadows casting across from them in their every movement.

No, the lines in his sketchbook are angry and harsh, too thick with too much pressure put into each stroke; the marks from the tip of his pencil pressing deeply against the paper’s surface making it even harder to erase, countless smudges of gray evidence of his attempts. 

“Dammit,” Tetsurou grumbles, running a hand through his already messy hair, pushing the waves up and away from his face; tangling it even further. He bites his lip in frustration, the fact that nothing he’s been trying to throw onto paper has been working for him puts him even more on edge.

The image in his head, crystal clear with a plethora of colour and complex dimensions, with Bokuto in the centre of in, in mid leap, crystals erupting from his back, extending behind him like the feathers on an owl’s wings.

Bismuth and Gypsum, he thinks bitterly, the colours floating behind closed eyelids. He knows exactly what he wants to paint, the first sliver of motivation making its way past the endless sea of black and gray, when hours blurred into minutes and days blended with seconds. 

Tetsurou’s wanted to paint Bokuto dancing ever since he first saw him; bathed in gold and silver pigments, glitter over his cheeks like sparkling freckles that made Tetsurou’s heart and cheeks warm, he had jumped and twirled midair, moving with ease and telling a story worth more than a thousand words, orchestrated simply by his every movement, his every glance, his every expression. Bokuto had captured an entire audience with his solo at the university’s opening recitals for the upcoming semester.

He’d remember that day for a long time

Nothing he pictured in his head was coming out onto the paper, his hands shake slightly, refusing to work with Tetsurou and help him draw. Not the brief blocking out of shapes on the page, nor the basic body sketches of Bokuto leaping into the air, arms spread wide, face impassive and unchanging, fixed to fit the character he played throughout the story of the dance routine. 

His eyes were the only thing that betrayed him, molten golden and glistening honey burning with excitement as he transitions into the next step sequence flawlessly. Shirofuku takes his hand and places it on her waist as she balances on the tips of her toes, wearing worn out ballet shoes meant only for training. Bokuto bends down for a moment, only to straighten up as Shirofuku hops into the air, leg swaying back until it nearly touches the top of her head, one arm extended into the air while the other holds onto Bokuto’s shoulder, steadying her.

Tetsurou watches in amazement; constantly in awe at the simple concentration between the the dancers whenever they practiced. Their routine falling into place as the soft melody crescendos, actions seemingly suspended in time, waiting to be remembered in the hearts of all those who watch it. 

He can never argue against the fact that Bokuto Koutarou is a dancer that enthralls all, ever since the two found themselves as roommates at one of the top art universities in Japan, they were surprised to find themselves going separate ways - Bokuto to Seijou’s multitude of dance suites, each prepared and organised per genre, walls made of glass and windows allowing light to flit in and cover the dancers like fairy dust. Kuroo to Shiratorizawa’s spaced out buildings dedicated to visual arts, filled with materials and equipment that give means to supply their students constantly, with whatever they need. Each room was rather quaint and roomy enough for four artists to work there comfortably, three if each of the artists were notorious for working on big pieces that bring a standstill in someone’s moment, making them stop and turn to see what was created and admire it accordingly.

Tetsurou really loves art, but in times like these; when his art block seems more prominent than a volleyball being spiked to his face, does he really dislike the form of artistic expression.

He doesn’t notice the music quientening in the background, or when Bokuto finally breaks character and jumps around Shirofuku with his laughter booming. Nor does Tetsurou notice the excited babbling from Bokuto talking with Shirofuku: highlighting his favourite aspects about their dance routine, complimenting her for the quick-step pattern she moved in at the crescendo, while Shirofuku pets Bokuto’s hair and smiles.

“And your pirouettes looked amazing!” 

Shirofuku scoffs, “of course they’re amazing, who do you think you were dancing with, huh, Bo?”

He blinks in return, tilting his head to the side, pointing at her with his eyebrows scrunching up in confusion. “Uh, you?” 

Rolling her eyes, she slaps his shoulder good heartedly, “and don’t you forget it,” she chirps, guiding him towards his sulking boyfriend. “Now go and deal with him, I don’t want mushrooms to grow from that corner when I’m back.”

Bokuto salutes her before turning on his heels, walking to Tetsurou, finding him with his head between his knees, arms wrapped loosely around his legs. His sketchbook closed and discarded next to him, near a pile of Tetsurou’s erasers, markers and his lucky mechanical pencil - the red one with cat paw prints all over it, and he treasured it with all his heart . 

Bokuto kneels in front of him, traces of a grin on the corners of his lips as he taps Tetsurou’s shoulder, earning him a small whine. 

“Oi, Kuroo,” Bokuto whispers noisily. Tetsusrou closes his eyes, sighing just as loud.

He thinks of the likelihood that Bokuto would give him a piggy back ride back to their dorm, and let him flop onto his bed in misery and frustration that nothing was going right with his art. Jolting when Bokuto leans in closer until he’s practically covering Tetsurou with one of his famous bearhugs. 

The whole situation is so weird; Tetsurou being in the dance building in general is weird. He’s never been very fond of all the jumping around, anxiety biting into his skin at the thought of injuries, at the ones he knows some of his classmates suffered from in the past few months. 

The thought that Bokuto - electrifying, animated, vivid Koutarou- injuring himself with the art form he’s practically in love with makes him curl into himself even more. Tetsurou isn’t made for dance, regardless of whatever Bokuto or Iwaizumi repeatedly say, even when making convincing arguments to sway Tetsurou into joining them for some aimless dancing, tapping their feet and simultaneously dragging Tetsurou away; over to an empty room with one wall panelled with a mirror.

Bokuto belting out some song that’s played over the radio for a week now. He’s singing the same song now, Tetsurou hearing every word distinctly because of how close he is, and when he shakes his head he feels something bump into in. Lifting his head up to see Bokuto rubbing his nose with a pout.

“What’s wrong with my singing?” He grumbles, voice sounding off. 

“Nothing,” Tetsurou replies, snorting at the bug eyed expression Bokuto makes when he taps his nose. “‘Cept its right next to my ear.” 

Bokuto sticks his tongue out at him and leans back onto his heels. “Rude ass.”

“A rude ass, but a rude ass with a hella fine one at that,” he winks, smirk turning into a smile when Bokuto snorts and lays down on the ground. “So from one fine ass-haver to another, what were you doing?”

He blinks back for a minute, eyes looking luminescent as light catches onto it. Tetsurou wants to look away from the brightness but his gaze stops him. 

“Wanted to check up on you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” he replies, eloquent as ever. “Uh, what for?”

Bokuto snorts again, his cheeks still a soft pink from the dance practice with Shirofuku. “You look like crap, Tetsu.” 

Tetsurou waves his hand, pretending he could dismiss the concern, but he knows: if Bokuto’s worried about him enough to sing then he must look worse than he thought.

“Life of an art student, Bo, a life of regret and perpetual exhaustion despite having coffee running through your veins.”

“So, I’m not a medical professional or anything, but I think blood is a better life source than coffee, Tetsu.”

“You’re right,” Tetsurou hums, leaning forward so that his elbows balance on his knees, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face. “I’ve not really thought of blood sacrifices that much before, but that might be an even better plan now.”

Bokuto raises an eyebrow, rubbing his chin in thought. “You’ve gotta find something big and brawny so that it’s strong enough to save your sorry arting ass.”

“My sorry arting ass and I need lots of saving,” agrees Tetsurou, chewing on his lower lip. “What about - oh no, that’s not, hmm, I couldn’t do that.”

Cocking his head to the side, Bokuto resembled an owl even more in that moment that he did normally, his hair falling in waves to frame his face; white blending with strands of gray and black, with blazing eyes that make Tetsurou freeze.

“We could sacrifice a goat.”

“Bo, no! Goats are friends! Take people instead, they’re more effort to deal with in life,” he waves his hands in the general direction of the exit, where bickering and other social interactions Tetsurou is too tired to deal with are.

“How about we find some people to take then?” Bokuto hums, standing up and pulling Tetsurou up with him, albeit how unwilling he is to do so. “Let’s say… sacrifice in our dorm, with some Ghibli movies, popcorn and maybe ramen, too?”

Tetsurou nods, grumbling something about bird brains and how animals are better companions than people, all of which Bokuto ignores while he picks up Tetsurou’s sketchbook and equipment, passing it to him. 

“Hey, I think there are some pretty good sacrifices we could pick out, from, say; the art studio you work at?”

Tetsurou’s eye twitch at the mention of his newly turned second home. Having stayed a whole week sleeping in there once with Oikawa being in charge of music (a terrible idea, really), Suga in charge of food (an even worse idea, he’s surprised he’s actually alive after Hell Week) and Akaashi in charge of pillows and blankets (which is the single worst possible idea considering he hogged all the blankets, leaving Tetsurou, Suga and Oikawa to fend off the unfairly cold art studio’s air conditioner unprotected.)

“I like the way you think, Bo,” Tetsurou refrains from yelling at another second year who bumped into him, narrowing his eyes and calling them a plebeian for no other reason but exhaustion winding down his patience. “ Yeah, those three are excellent sacrifices, indeed.”

[][][]

Akaashi Keiji looks like a mess, sitting on a stool in front of his easel, a canvas set on it with patches of colours blocking the edges, all dark hues and black shadows that Akaashi continues to tap on with his paintbrush. 

His back to the both of them, overlayed in splotches of paint scattered randomly, and brushstrokes running in criss-cross patterns covering the back of his purple sweatshirt. Dried pink and orange paint sticks to the tips of Akaashi’s hair, reminding Tetsurou of another artist down the hall who goes by the name of Semi Eita - or, as they’re often referred to by their best friend: Semi-Semi. While white paint dots some of his curls.

Akaashi’s humming when they both arrive, watching him from over the large table littered with rolls of canvas fabrics and nails. Tetsurou sees a pair of scissors and a hammer balancing precariously on a stack of jumpers and a single piece of cardboard that sit at the edge of the table. 

Oikawa sits on a stool there, a nail held between his lips as he props up an empty wooden frame; one that’s roughly half his height, on his knees. He focuses at the task at hand, measuring each side of the frame with a ruler, expression scrunching up in concentration. His eyes widen when he notices Bokuto walking towards him, grin as bright as ever, practically shining.

Belatedly, Tetsurou notes that Oikawa’s eyes have always been ridiculously pretty; soft brown mixed with flecks of hazel when sunlight passes over them, streaming into the room from an open window. He’s come to notice the slight shift in colour ever since he chose to do a character study on him - of all people, really Tetsurou should’ve asked Sugawara or even Tendou. Bokuto had offered to be his model but Tetsurou couldn’t help but ogle at him whenever he moved around to the beat of a song, so Oikawa was his only option.

He waves at Oikawa, huffing at the state of his work table and already storing this in a mental file full of blackmail material just for one Oikawa Tooru. 

Going over to tidy the table so that it could at least resemble some kind of workspace, Tetsurou could see the brightly coloured splatters on the sliver of surface he could see of the table. 

The little cartoon styled doodles in permanent marker not far away from it, and Tetsurou refrains from snorting at the little alien space ship drawn between patches of electric blue and bubblegum pink. 

Typical Oikawa, what else did he expect from the person who dragged him, Bokuto and Suga into watching reruns of X-Files for a week. 

Tetsurou shudders at the memory, having had enough candy and sweets to make him sick enough to stay in the dorms for three days, mewling and groaning at every headache and bout of nausea that hit him. 

Walking around the table, he stops next to Oikawa, shaking his head at the confused look he got before he flicks Oikawa’s forehead, earning him a loud whine.

“What’s up, nerd?” 

Glaring in return, Oikawa slaps away Tetsurou’s hand, giving it a dark look before he removes the nail he held between his lips and points it at him. 

“You, dear unhumble sir, are a piece of shit.”

Tetsurou smiles cheerfully, nodding his head. “But of course, takes one to know one, huh, Oikers?”

“Fuck off,” he retorts, going back to measuring and marking up the sides of the empty frame. “You come into my home -”

“It’s actually one of the Shiratorizawa art studios,” interrupts Tetsurou, the same glare that disappeared a minute ago making a reappearance.

“My home.”

He answers, a soft lilt in his voice as he spoke. He enjoyed these moments with Oikawa despite the occasional space-talk that drove him in circles. “Hmm, if you wanna be specific about it wouldn’t it be our home, O’ Great Tooru?” He wiggled his eyebrows, throwing a toothy grin Oikawa’s way. “Considering I normally paint by that window over there?”

Oikawa flips him off, grumbling and pulling out a cut piece of canvas fabric closer to himself, now measuring each of those sides.

“D’ya want me to listen to your rant or should I just, like, not?” He gestures at Oikawa, pitching forward to ruffle his fluffy hair before stepping back quickly. 

“Tetsu-chan.”

“Tooru-chan.”

“You’re bullying me, Kou-chan he’s bullying me, tell your asshole boyfriend to go away,” putting the wooden frame down, Oikawa scuttles off to where Bokuto stands, talking to Akaashi using wild gestures, one of which nearly ends up whacking Oikawa in the face. “Other Kou-chan, they’re both bullying me!”

Suga looks up from his sculpture, a needle nose plier in one hand with a braid of wire being brained in it. He raises an eyebrow. “Good.”

Oikawa’s face falls for a second, before it twisted and he sends Suga one of, what Tetsurou calls, ‘Oikawa’s Top Ten How Dare Expressions’. 

“Rude, and I was going to give you my coupons to that new restaurant you liked,” Oikawa huffs and Suga shrugs.

“You’re gonna give me them either way, you hate spicy food,” at Oikawa’s attempt at redeeming his fake love for spicy food, Suga continues. “I’ve got a confession on tape too.”

“You’re all rude shits, why are we friends,” complains Oikawa, trudging back to his workplace and plopping himself on his stool with a dramatic pout, he picks up the frame and fabric, settling it on the table to work on instead.

“Oi, whatcha doing?”

“Creating a schematic diagram that helps me pass the barrier into the astral plane using reinforced steel beams and nuclear energy to make it possible, what else?” Oikawa replies matter-of-factly, all in one breath and without even twitching at the blatant lie. “I’m fixing up my canvas, Tetsu-chan.” 

“I can see that.”

“What’d ya ask then?”

Tetsurou shrugs, make a sound of indifference. “I dunno, heard this thing called being a friend, not sure if it’s crossed your mind very often considering you food poisoned me once.”

Oikawa whirls around, pointing the hammer in his direction with a frown. “I’m not the one who said to eat all those candy bars, and if I’m remembering right - which, I am, even Kei-chan’ll agree with me - despite a certain someone being lactose intolerant, they also had a whole tub of ice cream.”

Crossing his arms, Tetsurou shakes his head, about to reply before he sees Bokuto nodding in the background. So this is what betrayal really feels like, damn. 

“The past is in the past, that information is irrelevant nowadays,” Tetsurou waves Oikawa’s comment away, ignoring the pointed look he receives from his own best friend, Suga and Oikawa simultaneously. 

Instead, he tugs a jumper from the pile underneath the little cardboard piece, briefly realising that the jumper was his; one he thought he’d lost three weeks ago. “So, how about we have a little get together and make some good ole memories.”

“No memory with you is a good one, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi comments, back still facing Tetsurou. 

“I’m, you know what -” 

Bokuto claps his hands, making everyone else in the little art studio jump at the noise and give him a look. He beams then, walking past to tug Tetsurou into a hug. 

“Sacrifices, remember, Tetsu?” He whispers. Tetsurou nods reluctantly and leans into Bokuto’s arms.

“So suit up assholes, we’re gonna watch a movie and you all owe me after Hell Week,” there were shudders and winces from the other three art majors in the room, each making varied noises of agreement, trying their best to ignore the smug look on Tetsurou’s face. 

“Now, how about Hell Week featuring horror movies?”

Behind him, Bokuto mouths ‘Ghibli Fest’ and the others smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> i enjoy doing the yell esp when its just button smashing :D
> 
> u can also yell at me on [tumblr](amajikies.tumblr.com) and [twitter](twitter.com/mistakepng)
> 
> \- mack


End file.
